Let the Morning Come
by MuchTooHighACost
Summary: Cause you're a hard soul to save, with an ocean in the way, but I'll get around it. [Post-series spoilers. One shot.]


**Many thanks for reviews and kind words for my last story, and huge ups again to Jen. Enjoy!**

* * *

When she hears the low roar of the bike coming up the street, her stomach jumps first to her throat in a rush of excitement, and then to her feet in an onslaught of dread. She's gone four whole days with neither sight nor sound of Samcro, and just when things are starting to die down, she's come unavoidably face-to-face with them.

Hurriedly, though she doesn't know why, Ally stubbs out the cigarette butt on the sidewalk beside her and shields her eyes to look up at the leather-clad figure before her, who turns out not to be her ultimatum-slinging ex-lover, as she'd expected, but rather his second in command. Tig pulls off his helmet to reveal his wiry, wild head of hair, but keeps his thin sunglasses on. She can't tell whether he's looking at her or not and she squints into the sun in annoyance.

"Should you be smoking this close to a hospital?" he teases as he lights up.

"California state law is 15 feet. Get off my dick, Trager," she snaps a little more harshly than she means to.

She thinks she hears him chuckle as he says, "Didn't think you smoked. Not cigarettes, anyway."

"Yeah, well…" Ally sighs and rubs the back of her neck, sore from angling up at him.

"Visiting Eglee?" Tig asks, dropping to sit beside her on the curb.

"Trying to. I've never really been a fan of hospitals. Too much death. Poor lighting."

"As opposed to the happiest place on earth, the police station," Tig jibes.

She wants to jab him with her elbow, but it feels too familiar. Since shit went south she feels like the world hasn't stopped spinning, and it seems like Charming is the middle of the fucking centrifuge. So she settles for an admonishing glance and a smirk.

"So," Tig says after a moment, the pad of one long finger reaching up to scratch the corner of his mouth.

Ally nods, knowing why he's here. "Did he send you?"

"No, actually, I'm… I came looking for you, Jarry."

"You're serious?"

"It's been a long fucking week, I wouldn't joke right now, Sheriff."

Her heart twists thinking about the week she's had, although she realizes perhaps for the first time that it's nothing compared to the week they've had. "For what it's worth," she says, reaching into her breast pocket and lighting up again, "I'm sorry."

Tig holds up one big hand and shakes his head. "You don't-thank you."

She taps the toe of her boot on the ground aimlessly, hearing the tiny pieces of sidewalk crunch beneath it, genuinely at a loss for words. When he'd pulled up she actually thought Filip had sent him-to summon her, to admonish her… to kill her? She isn't even sure what for anymore but a quick look past the end of her nose has made it abundantly clear that some ill-fated tryst is the furthest thing from the President's mind right now.

"Why did you come?" she asks, the setting sun finally dipping below the smattering of trees and buildings on the horizon, bathing Charming in a blood-orange glow.

Tig removes his sunglasses, the bright blue of his eyes nearly as blinding as the light and-to her dismay-swimming with tears. "He's all knotted up, Ally. Twisted and… fucked up. And we're just struggling to stay above water. When shit hits the fan on the streets, and with the Irish… _Christ_, with the Irish. He won't let it end Samcro but he'll let it end him. He'll stay alive but not whole."

"Tig, what you're asking-"

"Look, I may not understand whatever power trip the two of you got off on, but whatever it was, it worked, because-"

"If by _worked _you mean he was in a better mood when he had a place to put his dick, you're in for a rude awakening about the race of men, Trager."

"Goddammit, will you let me finish?" he snaps, a hint of smile in the corner of his mouth. "I don't get the two of you, but all that matters is that you get each other. You know what a good woman is to a man like him."

Ally bristles at the implication, but she can't keep the grin off her face. "What?"

"You're a good woman and you know it," Tig says, returning the smile. "You're not a good girl from what I hear, but that's none of my business."

She feels herself actually blush. "Been talking to Quinn, have you?"

"The silent, sexual sentinel." Tig laughs.

"Yeah, well. I hope that's all he told you."

"It's not, you've got a killer rack, apparently."

"You should be so lucky," she jabs, putting out her cigarette and stretching upwards to stand.

"It's okay, you're not my type."

"So I hear," she drawls.

"Look…" he says, growing serious again. "He'll kill me if you tell him I told you. But just talk to him. He needs it. He doesn't know he does, but he needs it."

Ally nods slowly. "Okay. Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Tig throws his cigarette to the ground and crushes it out with the toe of his boot. "Thanks, Jarry."

"What, no hug?" she teases as he swings a leg back over his bike.

"You should be so lucky," he echoes, and his laugh is lost over the sound of his engine roaring to life.

X

She doesn't know why, but she knows he's here. The little blue house is so unassuming from the outside, no one would ever know the brutal murders that had taken place there only weeks before. His bike is parked in the driveway, chrome gleaming in the moonlight. All the lights in the house are off, so she knocks twice on the front door before entering. It's open.

"It's Ally," she calls into the darkness, surprised at how loud her voice sounds, and suddenly truly afraid. "Filip?"

She's never been in the house, though it is at once eerily familiar. Crime scene photos are etched in her brain, were poured over until early hours of the morning, and then sat unused in her bag at the foot of her bed as she fucked the man who was heir to the throne of the biker kingdom. God, how had she been so stupid?

She tries the living room first, thinking he's languishing in the dark, or perhaps he's fallen asleep on the couch. But it is empty, the barcalounger moving imperceptibly in the stillness of the house. She peers down the hallway where Teller's bedroom door bulks like the ghost of him that looms over Charming, over her, over Filip, over everything they've done and everything they'll do. It doesn't seem right to continue, and so she backtracks past the front door and into the kitchen.

It is the scent of cigarette smoke that leads her to him, finally, sitting at the kitchen table. His back is to the door, so she sees the Reaper first, an all too familiar friend these days.

"How'd you know I was here?" he asks, his accent thicker than the air is with smoke.

"Lucky guess," she admits, lingering in the doorway.

"Still had my key. No one to return it to."

"Yeah."

He gives a big sigh and leans back in the chair, looking up at the ceiling. She can just barely make out his scars in the moonlight. "This house was never empty. Always someone coming and going. The clubhouse was our spot, sure, but turns out we got by without that. But this house… our real HQ."

"Yeah." She says it out of solidarity, but in truth she is almost a little jealous of the connection he feels to this house, to this town, to his brotherhood. She's lived in a million towns west of the Rockies just like Charming, and none of them have weighed her down enough to stay. But she feels something now, something heavy settling in her stomach, and maybe it's just nervousness, but she thinks it might be a reason to stay, and that is far more terrifying.

"I've never felt that about a place," she admits, and she doesn't know why.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. She shifts awkwardly in her boots. She'd changed before coming over into jeans and a soft t-shirt, and now she wishes she hadn't. When she's in the uniform she's in control. She can put up that wall between her and anyone without saying a word. But without it she's just Althea Jarry, goddamn basket case. Or at least, that's how it feels.

"Blessing and a curse," he says with a sigh.

She feels comfortable enough to walk further into the kitchen, to cross into his line of vision, and take a seat across from him at the table. As she sits, she catches a glimpse of the refrigerator, adorned with alphabet magnets and children's drawings and photos of people who are all dead now.

"Thought I warned you," he says after a moment. "About being close to this club, and where it gets you."

"You did," she says evenly, "but as I'm sure you know by now, I'm not the best at doing what I'm told."

"You know what happened to the last woman shacked up with the president of this club," Chibs says darkly, rapping at the patch just above his breast pocket.

Ally nods evenly. "I also know what happened to the last person shacked up with the sheriff."

He shakes his head. "Not the-"

"It is," she says adamantly. "It is _exactly_ the same. We're two sides of the same coin, Filip. So don't throw that shit in my face cause I can throw it right back."

He expels a smoke-ridden puff of air and brushes a gloved hand across the tabletop. "You're not wrong, but you're not right either."

She shakes her head. She is emboldened by the darkness and this neutral territory and all of a sudden wants to say the things she wished she'd said that day he threatened her life. "I don't know what that means."

Chibs smirks, the closest thing to smiling she's seen him do in weeks. "You do. You just don't like it."

"What I don't like," she says, flicking at nothing on the kitchen table, not quite able to meet his eyes, "is being told what to do."

"Makes two of us." He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms, the president patch disappearing beneath leathered arms and ringed fingers.

She takes an even breath and says, "I don't really know why I came here."

"You're lyin', love. Tigger sent you." And then he really does smile, his scars turning even further upwards, and her heart thuds loudly and she remembers the reason.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," she says softly, an echo of her words to his brother hours before. "I'm sorry about Teller and Unser and Gemma and… everything. How it all went down. I'm…"

"Thank you." His response his sincere but it's all he can say. She sees his shoulders tense up and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the tabletop. "Thank you."

He bows his head for a moment, forehead nearly touching his hands, and she is terrified that he might start crying, terrified that seeing him like that would break her heart all over again, terrified that she would kiss it better and they would be back where they started.

But he doesn't cry. He reaches across the table just a little bit further and doesn't look up but she knows to take his hand and hold on. The leather of his gloves is smooth beneath her fingertips and she remembers what it feels like on the small of her back, pulling up her shirt or swiping her hair off her face.

She wets her lips before she speaks, her mouth suddenly incredibly dry. "Last week… when I said-"

Filip shakes his head and doesn't meet her eyes, but he grabs her hands tighter and says with a sad smile, "Don't ruin the moment, my love."

Ally lets out a huff of annoyance but stays silent, despite the unsaid words churning in her head.

He looks up now, one leathered thumb still playing in the middle of her palm as he says, "We were made for breaking, Althea."

She shakes her head, and something in her chest tightens in anger, and she can't be silent. "I thought it was working."

"Working? For who?" He is not antagonistic, he is sad, defeated, and somehow that makes her angrier.

"For everybody. The club, the law, Charming…"

"No such thing, Ally, and y'know it," he scoffs, and it drives her to the dark place that makes her say things she doesn't mean.

"This is a profitable relationship, Filip, and if you're going to let your dick make decisions that your head can't handle then maybe you don't deserve to wear that patch."

She regrets the words as soon as they're out of her mouth, before he's even pushed back the chair and stood, before his eyes blacken with contempt, before she can apologize, she's already made the mistake, and she knows she can't come back from it.

"Filip-" Immediately she rises and follows him out of the kitchen.

"Fuck you," he throws over his shoulder.

"You're the best goddamn one of them," she says, and her voice breaks for some reason that she doesn't have time to think about. "You're… even and steady and those boys listen to you. If anybody has to wear that patch it should be you."

"I don't do this because I bloody well _have_ to," he growls, rounding on her, not touching her but pinning her with his words against the hallway wall. "I do this because I want to. This is my life, Althea. It's my goddamn church and my home and my family, and that's why I fucking do it."

"_I know that_," she says, her voice still unsteady. She raises her chin proudly to keep the lump in her throat from rising.

"What do you want, Sheriff? Cause you've made it abundantly clear that it's not me."

It takes every ounce of strength left in her not to run. Not to throw a retort in his face and slam the door behind her. But she is tired of fighting, especially with him, and so she gives a sigh that she hates for turning into a whimper and says, "I lied."

His jaw twitches, barely, but when he speaks his voice is deep and rolling and a little sad. "Your eyes are beautiful when you're angry."

When she can finally open her mouth without feeling the urge to scream in frustration, she says, "I know you mean that as a genuine compliment, that you're accustomed to using your goddamn accent to make girls' panties drop, but I need you to know that when you say that, I see blood."

He shrugs one shoulder, leaning the other in and bracing himself against the wall with one palm. "Worked on you."

"That was… adrenaline and survival instincts and my inescapable ability to make terrible decisions." She feels her face flush and her heart rate spike.

He almost laughs and she breathes in his smoky scent, and remembers how nice it is to wake up to the smell of him beside her, and suddenly she is desperately lonely.

"And speaking of terrible decisions," she says, her gaze dropping to the ground, "I've got something in my car that I could use your help finishing off."

"You know the way to a man's heart, Lieutenant."

X

They don't speak for almost an hour, passing the joint back and forth and letting the smoke hang between them like the words they can't say. The lights are still off in the living room, but in the white moonlight coming through the window she can just make out the outline of his face, the sad slump of his shoulders. They are on the couch, sitting beside each other and not really touching, but not really trying not to either. His thigh is warm next to hers and for right now it's enough.

He can feel her close and smell her everywhere, a scent he's not used to in this house but that is comforting all the same. She is soft beside him, the drug rounding the edges of her usually rock-hard exterior and making her seem more woman than she ever has.

"What's going to happen to the house?" Ally asks finally.

Chibs shrugs. "Jackie left some paperwork. Putting his affairs in order. Lowen's handling it. Think it'll stay in the family; nobody'll want it after what's happened here."

"What if you took it?" she asks, leaning back to sink into the overstuffed cushions.

"Couldn't do that," he says with a shake of his head. "It'd be too much."

"It could be… HQ again."

He turns to look at her sadly, his scars seemingly deeper than ever. "I know you're just being nice, love, but it'll never be the same again."

"You could make it the same," she says, eyes not moving from his.

"Why d'you believe in me so much, Althea?" His voice is close to breaking and so is her heart.

"Because I want to."

And then she puts a hand on his knee and kisses him, mixing their smoky sighs and giving each other something to hold on to, at least for the moment.


End file.
